


Just Watch the Fireworks

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home for the holidays, Karma and Amy head out to celebrate New Year’s Eve. As it gets closer to midnight, Karma’s surprised to find that for everything that’s changed between them, some things have stayed the same.</p><p>
  <i>“Every look and every touch is different.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Watch the Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> AU ish. Future fic. Follows canon. Fill of prompt two from [this](http://fakingitfanfiction.tumblr.com/post/136083537737/i-have-a-few-prompts-that-i-think-will-be-awesome) set over at [@fakingitfanfiction](http://tmblr.co/mlsrSMp1stykUgcNea_ks5Q), requesting a New Year’s Eve midnight kiss between Amy and Karma. I wanted to play with their dynamic a little to see what they’d be like during college and how different or similar their relationship might be. This is my New Year’s gift to you all, mostly written in one concentrated session, which was fun to do. Title from/inspired by the Jimmy Eat World song of the same name.

***

 _“A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature_  
_to stop speech when words become superfluous.”_  
– Ingrid Bergman.

***

Your teenage self used to dream of nights like this. Whenever you thought of the life you and Amy would have once you made it out of high school, it would’ve looked something like this. It’s 11:30 (OK, it’s more like 11:33) on New Year’s Eve and you’re in Kingdom, one of the coolest clubs in Austin with your bestest friend in the world, and it’s fucking _amazing_. Somewhere, that teenage self is 50/50 beaming with pride, and seething with jealousy, because you _made_ it. You’re no longer Karma Ashcroft with the weird hippie parents who own a juice truck. You’re Karma Ashcroft with a real life of her own in Chicago, going into your final semester of linguistics at Northwestern, living with Amy and a bunch of other girls off-campus, and you’ve never been happier. You’re the girl who gets to waltz up to the front of the line because your best friend knows one of the DJ’s – you never thought you’d be thankful to Reagan for anything, but she’s a good friend now – and managed to get you in without paying the cover. You’re popular and you know people, you have a beauty vlog on YouTube that’s getting crazy subscriber numbers that are getting close to levelling your music channel (which is just insane). You finally figured out your style and you’ve never looked hotter, even if you do say so yourself. These days you’re a little more Coachella hipster than you ever thought you’d be, and that’s completely Amy’s fault, because she embraced the whole berets and coffee culture aspect of being a literature student, but it’s totally working for the both of you so you’re not about to be mad.

(you wonder if this Karma is the person she saw all along)

The best part? She’s been there to witness your late blossoming, and your friendship is better than it’s ever been. She’s been there for all of it. For the homesickness and the cooking disasters, for the parties and the pledging, for the study all-nighters and the midterms stress, for the hangovers and the heartbreaks. She’s been there for everything, and it’s only going to continue because you’re both set on going to grad school and getting another place together when Zoe, Ally, and Tara move out soon. The band’s breaking up because of travelling (Tara), internships (Ally), and surprise Christmas proposals (Zoe and her nauseatingly cute boyfriend Brett), and you’re sad, because it’s the end of an era. You’re the babies of the group and they let you tag along until you all became real friends. Soon – too soon – it’ll just be you and Amy again, like it’s always been.

For the first time in a while, you’re both free agents. Your break-up is still a little raw; your sweet, passionate, principled, driven, ever-so-slightly nerdy and incredibly cute boyfriend Tallan dropped out before Christmas break to ‘find himself and do good in the world.’ You want to be mad because you’re still kind of upset, he was infinitely better than any other guy you’ve dated and he’s one of few people – nevermind boys – who actually got the Amy thing, but you can’t be mad because he’s working for Habitat for Humanity. How are you meant to be mad at him for that? He didn’t give you some crappy ultimatum and force you to go with him. He didn’t expect you to deal with such a long distance - you don’t have the mental capacity to deal with how far away Guatemala is right now, you’re too many drinks in for that. He didn’t fallout of love with you, so there’s that. The ending felt necessary, felt right, and it was all horribly adult, but you’re still entitled to be sad. Amy has been your rock through the whole thing, full of cuddles, and candy, and all the right words. She broke up with her girlfriend Camille a few months ago. You didn’t hate her either – progress in itself – they had fun, and she made Amy happy, so there was no way you’d begrudge her that, not after everything you’ve been through. But she would tell you it was mostly physical and felt very temporary, and you both knew it was true because Camille was more of a free-spirit-turned-child-of-the-universe than you ever were, and sometimes she really missed the emotional connection. Sometimes, you’re not sure she was on the same planet as Amy. In fact, you’re not sure she was on the same planet as anyone else either.

Now, Amy’s happily single and you’re getting to be. Especially on nights like this, because all you’ve done is drink and dance, trying and failing miserably to talk to her over the loud music that she mostly hates, but freely admits she likes to dance to. She can actually dance now, but her dance ability increases with the amount of cocktails she’s had, and she loses her shyness, and drops any last vestige of being cool. You’re glad she managed to get you to come out tonight because you were all for Netflix, pj’s, and beer. It was quite the role reversal, even though you know she’s mostly done this for your benefit, like letting you play with her makeup and her outfit like you’re in middle school again. Thanks to her, you’ve gotten to shake off school stress, and love stress, and just let go and have fun. Shane and Lauren promised to meet you here, but you’re not sure they’ll show, or even if they’ll be able to get in. The place is packed. Shane left you a few hours ago in Plush, chasing his latest boy-toy. You lost Lauren to the dance floor at Barcelona a little after. The last time you looked, she was making out with some guy, and you’d had quite enough of the show.

It’s looking likely you’ll see in the New Year with Amy, but you can’t say you mind.

Amy’s lounging in one of the booths, spreading out so no one else can sit there, and god do you love her right now; you’ve barely had a chance to sit down all night, and these heels were a mistake. A pretty, expensive mistake, but still a mistake. She’s bopping her head to the music and looks all kinds of ridiculous. She gets even more ridiculous when she waves at you as you squeeze into a small gap that emerges when there’s a surge in the music, and it makes you wonder how people can deal with so little personal space. You’ve clearly been hanging out with Amy for too long, her little awkward social penguin tendencies have rubbed off. Granted, she’s not nearly as awkward anymore, college really suits her. She’s going to be _that_ hottie TA after graduation when she starts working for her professor, Dr Feldman.

“This is for you!” you yell over the music, somehow managing to get back to her with most of your drinks.

“It’s pink,” she yells back, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

“It’s free,” you counter, flopping next to her. “I’m done paying for these, and since we have no boyfriends, girlfriends, or even fucking friends to speak of, I had to use other methods.”

“How?” she turns to you, smiling a little because she already knows the answer.

“This is also for you,” you reply, reaching into your bra and presenting a napkin, “from Sexy Lexie the bartender.”

_LEXIE  
512-555-0189 _

(you memorised the number in case Amy got shy and threw it in the trash)

“Karma!” she shrieks, elbowing you. “You just asked for her number like that?”

“Amy!” you mimic her note, grinning. “Yes, I did. You couldn’t stop looking at her. If I waited for you to get the courage to hit on her, I’d be ninety-five as well as thirsty.”

“Whatever I’m improving,” she argues, mock offended. “What did you say?”

“Stuff,” you shrug, like everything you said is some sort of secret. It’s not. “Anyway,” you begin, brushing the hair off of her face where it’s starting to fall into her eyes. “Texting and discussing literary theory with that cute barista on campus doesn’t count. You need to do it outside of the Northwestern bubble, babe.”

Wow, you might’ve had more to drink than you thought ... and there’s way too much rum in whatever Lexie made for you.

Though you’ve stopped playing cupid, you have become a really good wingwoman. Amy’s a terrible flirt and you aren’t, so you do it for her. It’s easy. It’s even easier to flatter other girls when you know exactly what they want to know. To be honest, the attention is nice and it gives you a little ego boost. You’re pretty certain you’re ninety percent of the reason why she gets laid. That other, very important ten percent, is all on her. Sure, she sucks at flirting, but she sure doesn't suck at anything else - the apartment walls are thin, and you’ve never seen a girl leave unsatisfied.

“Karm, I don’t know,” she says, re-reading the paper and leaning close to you can hear. She’s flushed and sweaty from all the dancing, but you don’t really care. “God, even her writing is hot,” she continues, and you laugh. It’s cute. “She’s probably like what, twenty-five?”

“Shh, just put it away for later,” you say, snatching the napkin from her before she can argue even more, and push it into her jeans pocket. “So? Like that even stopped you before? Reagan was older than you, so was Cam.”

“True,” she mumbles, and you barely hear it.

She’s being ridiculous, acting like she’s some hideous leper or something. She’s stupidly gorgeous, and somehow doesn’t know that, despite how stupidly smart she is. Worse still, she’s even less aware of her effect on people. Most of the people in here have had their eyes glued to her ass since you both came in. She looks damn good tonight, and she should, you engineered it after all. She still works the whole sleeveless top, skinny jeans, and boots thing really well. Even Lexie described her as ‘the cute blonde with the nice ass,’ when you went in for the final sell. It wasn’t particularly hard.

“Fine, but we have to get you laid too,” she says after a moment, patting your thigh as she scans the room and sips her drink.

It briefly occurs to you that the bodycon dress you’re wearing might be too short, but it got you way up in the line even before Reagan came out and talked to the door guys, so it can’t really be a bad choice.

“Fine,” you relent, trying to follow her eyeline.

Even with all the neon lights, it’s still pretty dark. There have been some cute guys, including one who gave up his stool so you could wait while Lexie mixed a bunch of drinks. He was wearing some weird band shirt and guyliner. Two things that have inexplicably become catnip to you once you got out of your teens.

“Guyliner guy was cute,” you muse, leaning your head on her shoulder.

“I saw you talking,” she whispers conspiratorially, like she’s twelve instead of nearing twenty-two.

“I don’t think I’m over Tallan yet,” you admit.

“Best way to get over someone,” she starts, parroting Shane with a wry smile.

“I know,” you sigh heavily. “I won’t even have anyone to kiss at midnight.”

It’s not even the first time you’ve said that tonight. It’s about the eight millionth time, and just like all the other times, she doesn't say anything. Why couldn’t Tallan stay until New Year? Why couldn’t Camille be less of a _fucking_ space cadet and realise that Amy is beautiful, and wonderful, and smart, and so much more than a fuck buddy? Why didn’t you step off the edge with her?

At the exact moment that thought crosses your mind, she’s pulling you up.

“Come on, let’s fit one more dance in before the count,” she says, passing what’s left of your drink to you. “Shane wouldn’t allow this depressive bullshit if he was here,” she declares, firm, clicking the glass with yours in toast.

You nod and down your drinks in solidarity. Now you’re used to it, the burn is kind of delicious. She’s right; you know she’s right. Hypothetical Shane is also right. You need this year to be over. It started so well with acing your classes and meeting Tallan, then everything went sideways. You keep hold of her hand, leading her toward the only free spot there is. The song is one you both know well from one of Tara’s mixes. She’s an EDM freak, and provides the soundtrack to all of your going out rituals - whether it's pre-drinks, hair styling or make-up tests.

“It’s Tara’s song!” you both yell at the same time, clinging to each other, laughing.

You keep laughing when she spins you around, and then does these strange sort of tango moves, and you can’t keep up with her. It’s too hot and there are too many people.

“Dance properly!” you say, swatting at her.

She just laughs in this cute way she never does when she’s sober, and you grab her, pulling her closer to put off the guys behind you that haven’t stopped looking since you moved back to the floor. Neither of them is Tallan or Guyliner, so they can get the fuck away from you both. Thank you very _fucking_ much.

“This doesn’t mean anything, OK?” you say, needlessly.

“It’s fine, let's just dance, do what you want,” she shrugs, with no hint of sadness.

You and Amy are past this, so over all the weirdness about feelings, and girls, and feelings _for_ girls. You’re cool. Amy will love you forever. Amy is very, _very_ gay, but has this magnetism that attracts everyone. You can dance slow with her or dance kind of sexy, like you are now. She can totally smack your ass at any given opportunity, and/or say your boobs look nice in whatever shirt and bra combination you happen to be wearing, and it’s fine.

Usually.

But everything feels different tonight with her in this club, after too many cocktails and those early tequila shots at Shane’s house. You’ve never danced as close as this before, and you have your arms around her neck, and her own hands her are basically on your ass because you put them there as part of your ‘ward off sketchy men strategy.’ It just feels nice to be close to her and she smells insanely good, OK?

You’re about to say something about the moment, whatever it is, when the DJ fades the music out, and fades up this horrendously loud countdown clock, and Amy pulls away from you.

“Fuck, it’s almost time, Karm!” she says, all too loudly, cupping your face briefly before her hands drop away.

For a moment, you’re bereft, missing the contact, but then she takes your hands in hers, and you kind of forget everything. The energy in the room seems to surge, and you get carried along with everyone else as they chant the countdown. You join in with them and Amy, jumping up and down with her in time to the counting and the rest of the crowd.

_Five._

It’s happening.

_Four._

Without Tallan or Camille.

_Three._

Without Chris or Taylor.

_Two._

Without Adam or Erin.

“I don’t have anyone to kiss.”

You’re not quick enough to hide your sadness. It hits you like a wave, and you feel like crying suddenly, because in spite of everything Amy’s here for you. Always. Amy’s here now, when no one else is.

“Fuck it, come here.”

She says it in this breathy sort of growl she’s never, _ever_ used on you before. It jolts something in you awake.

_One._

There’s a chorus of ‘Happy New Year’ cheers all around you, and sudden bursts of glitter and tickertape, and you can hear the booms of far off fireworks, lighting up the sky. None of that really registers, because she grabs your face again, cradling it, and presses her lips to yours. You can feel her smiling into it. Startled, you pull away. It’s like the whole club disappears, and there’s a spotlight trained on her, and her alone. She’s looking at you, searching you, lips slightly parted like she’s trying to say a thousand things, and can’t say one little word because the air won’t leave her lungs. You’ve seen that look before, a long time ago now, when she was just as brave. Maybe it’s the night, the tickertape and adrenaline kicking around your body that makes your heart race so fast feel like it’s going to explode at any second.

And _wow_. You’re not so drunk anymore.

Before she can back off and get scared or you back off and get scared, you use the cloak of the moment and the euphoria that’s everywhere, grabbing the back of her head and kissing her again. It’s quick and rough, and she’s still for a second, stiff almost, but then you feel her give, or let go of something, and it feels different. Her resolve is gone, and she’s kissing you back in this soft, slow way, taking control of everything, her hands in your hair, ruining it and you let her, you just _let_ her do it. She never kissed you like this when you were faking. No one’s ever kissed you like this. You surge forward, pressing your whole body into hers and deepen the kiss. It’s indecent, and there’s entirely too much tongue, but you don’t care, chasing down the next kiss, biting down on her bottom lip and waiting to release it. She moans, or you do, you’re not sure. You just want her to never stop kissing you. Ever. You don’t care that people can see and some of them are whistling. She lets you do it too, responding with quicker, greedier, more heated kisses. The fireworks are closer now, crackling louder than the DJ’s new, surging, bass heavy music you can feel vibrating in your chest.

Bang, bang, bang.

Her hands are on your ass for real this time, grabbing firmly, and you whimper at it. The momentum of it pushes you backwards against the nearest wall. _Fuck,_ you want her now. You want her so badly. You want her hands on you, and her mouth on you, and you want to be in her bed, clinging to the headboard as it slams against the wall. You want to be the girl screaming her name instead of Taylor, Erin, Camille, or any of the others. She pulls back, and you want to say all of that, say everything that your teenage self never dared. Too curious, but never too brave. You think she’s going to stop, but she doesn’t, instead, she just tilts her head down, brushes your hair away and kisses your neck, tracing a path up, up, up.

Your eyes flutter closed, your head falls back against the wall, and you wonder if you’ll ever breathe again, letting out quick, ragged breaths to recover.

When she speaks, soft and seductive in your ear; her voice laced with want, and no hint of the nervousness that’s so familiar, you think you stop breathing completely.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” you reply, sure and certain.

 _Yes._ It comes to you so quickly. So easily. So belatedly. The strength of it, and the depth of desire behind it, surprises you.

She pulls back reluctantly to look at you, and her whole face is illuminated when another firework goes off, and you know she wants this too. You’ve said the only word she’s ever wanted to hear and was always the hardest for you to say. When she smiles, eyes full of want, it’s different. When her fingers lace with yours, and she leads you through the crowd, it’s different. When she stands with you, her hand brushing the small of your back while you wait for the girl to bring back your jackets from the check, it’s different. Every look and every touch is different.

(it’s everything you were too afraid to ask for, and never dared dream of)

Out in the cold of the new day in a new year, you kiss her hungrily in the alley next to the club while you wait for cab, feverish, and more turned on than you’ve ever been. She holds you, hands ghosting the shape of your body, and you keep kissing with that same depthless greed as before. You can’t get enough of each other. She stays like that, pressed close to you until the lights from the cab turning into the street lights up the alley, reminding you both there are more people in the world than just two.

“Take me home.”


End file.
